


Voided Warranty

by BeeBeMe



Series: The Wasteland's a Rough Place (Fallout Whumptober 2020) [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Injury, Manhandling, Pre-Canon, Restraints, Torture, Violence, Whump, Whumptober 2020, i'm not gonna get too grusome but this IS for, so yknow, violation of personal space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:48:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26767528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeBeMe/pseuds/BeeBeMe
Summary: His memories weren't helping him here. The Real Nick had never gotten nabbed, though he'd heard enough horror stories about those that did. Bodies found missing fingernails, kneecaps pulverized, bearing evidence of a power drill's voided warranty…Two weeks is a very long time to be held captive, especially if one's captors are as paranoid as Skinny Malone.
Series: The Wasteland's a Rough Place (Fallout Whumptober 2020) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951108
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	1. Let's Hang Out Sometime

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Whumptober 2020!](https://whumptober2020.tumblr.com/about) These chapters deal with two of the prompts - Day 1: "Let's Hang Out Sometime" (Waking Up Restrained and Day 3: "My Way or the Highway" (Manhandled). Chapter 2 will be posted on the 3rd!

Coming out of a forced-restart was always a kick in the head.

Everything felt fuzzy, out of place, and _odd._ Every time, it took him back to waking up in the dump. The feeling of inhabiting a body that wasn't his own, the disorientation, and primal sense of fear. Like a square peg shoved into a circular hole - pieces that fit much too snugly right alongside ones that didn't fit at all. 'Course, he was somewhat used to the feeling by now. After a century of being a bag of bolts, well, he adjusted whether he wanted to or not. Self-preservation is a funny thing, like that. The body wants to keep on living regardless of what the mind desires. Damned programming.

His consciousness was always one of the last to come to. Feedback from his proximity sensors, damage reports, the results from his restart diagnostic - they all lined up on the side of his HUD, marked in white and red. His optics hadn't booted up yet, a choice he'd made of his own volition. He knew he wasn't back at the agency. It was too cold and, most importantly, too _quiet._ If someone had hauled him back, Ellie'd be hovering, and the dame wasn't one to stifle her movements. No, this was wrong, and it was better to get a sense of what was going on. He knew the moment he let those glowing peepers get a fix on the place the jig would be up. No, he forced his body to be still and silent. Malone's goons wouldn't know what to look for, not if he was careful.

So, he let himself feel. He was sitting, chin to his chest. If he had the nerves to irritate, he'd figure that there'd be a fine crick in his neck. As it was, he couldn't help but feel those phantom pains, leftovers from 'fond' memories of waking up with his head in a pile of paperwork way back when he needed to sleep. The ink stains were always the worst, he found himself recalling. Clarence had given him shit even after he got the print off of his forehead, the old bastard.

Focus. Back to the present, now wasn't the time for a flash. The air was cold, no breeze to be spoken of. Inside, then, at least somewhere enclosed. Inside the vault? Possibly. There was something tight around his right wrist - pressed against the sensors in his rubbery flesh, smooth and cold. Metal, damn. Had it been rope or zip ties, he'd have busted them in seconds. Metal was a different story. Skinny sure did know what he was doing. He'd wager that the same would be around his left, but he'd have to move to confirm it. Those sensors just weren't what they used to be, what without the skin.

The Triggermen had gone through the effort to keep him in place, which still left the question of the hour, why keep him alive? They'd gotten a good drop on him - busted him in the back of the head before his proximity sensors could get a word in. 'Would have been real easy to send him to the big one after that, yet they didn't. Here he'd thought that he'd have a chat with the gee himself, get the girl out, and come on home. He hadn't expected Malone to be dizzy with the dame herself. Damn him for getting too caught up, damn him for getting too _soft._ A memory, one of his own for once, came to the forefront of his processor. "You're gonna test your luck a little too much one of these days, Nicky," Ellie had said, brown eyes sharp and hand tight on his upper arm. "One of these days, that luck's gonna run out."

And, like always, Ellie had been right. 

Something in his chest thunked at the thought of the young woman. Skinny Malone kept him alive for a reason, most likely for information or as a bargaining tool. He doubted it was the later - the only person who'd put their neck on the line for a battered, old synth would be Ellie herself, and Nick couldn't think of a reason why someone would go after her. Still, the possibility was too troubling to ignore. If Malone was after something back at the office, he already had it sitting right here. As much of a pain the old processor could be, he didn't find himself forgetting anything, _ever._ A curse on those long nights, but a blessing for one in his line of work. A century of detective work left a lot of useful facts flying around his metal dome, useful facts that the Triggermen could use. 

Most likely, Ellie was safe, thank God. Though, the only way to ensure that was to break her ties to the situation - himself. He needed to get out, and fast. He scoured his memory but found nothing analogous that he could use. There’d been a few bouts with Raiders, though those were more extended periods of being pinned by gunfire than any sort of imprisonment. The denizens of the Commonwealth weren’t keen on taking prisoners - just another mouth to feed, a poor use for any guards. The Real Nick had never gotten nabbed, though he'd heard enough horror stories about those that did. Bodies found missing fingernails, kneecaps pulverized, bearing evidence of a power drill's voided warranty…

He was shaking. Why the hell was he shaking? He didn’t have _nerves_ His metal hand clenched, points of contact buzzing through old, damaged sensors. He heard someone move far off. Damn. He heightened his audial pickup-range, hearing the walls buzz with energy. “...the boss,” someone said, and then went quiet. Footsteps thudded off, someone scuffed their heel beyond the wall. Well, no use putting off the inevitable. Nick Valentine, synth detective, summoned his optics online and immediately regretted the decision.

Blood - old and brown, flaking like rust - splattered haphazardly along the concrete walls. He tilted his head back and good God, there was some on the ceiling, too. Unconsciously, he yanked at the binds holding him in place, letting out a hiss between his clenched denta as the metal cut against sensors. His legs were bound to the legs of the chair; once at his ankles and again at his knees. The same had been done to his arms - wrist and elbows immobilized. His coat was nowhere to be found, exposing the gash along his right pectoral and left flank. He didn’t need to look down to see the mechanisms working away within the cracks of his rubber skin. He felt his coolant pump quicken at the feeling of vulnerability.

_Easy now, panicking ain’t gonna help anything,_ he reminded himself, feeling the urge to offline his optics but resisting for the moment. Any hint of fear, any crack they could get, the Triggermen would use as far as they could stretch. He breathed in, feeling the iron-tinged air soothing over his warm components, and let the air whistle out. Frantic thoughts nearly reeled in, he’d almost started on a plan of action when a door swung open behind him.  
Skinny Malone slunk into view. The two guards stood behind him, just out of sight. No doubt they were armed to the teeth. Even Malone carried his submachine gun slung to the side, nearly blending into the dark suit the man donned. Nick had known Skinny since he’d been a young kid stirring trouble near Diamond City. They’d clashed - Malone stealing something or other and Nick being sent out after him. Maybe that old familiarity was what let this happen. _Too soft, you bucket of bolts. Now look what you’ve done._

Malone crouched over his alderman, having grown a bit pudgy since he’d last seen him, putting the two at eye level. “Now this ain’t somethin’ I thought I’d ever see,” the mobster drawled, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Th’ great Nick Valentine, hangin’ around my humble abode. Woulda’ broken out the good whisky, but y’know-”

“I know you ain’t here to bump gums, Skinny,” Nick all but growled, talking through clenched denta. The vulnerability of the situation made his data processor prickle. He knew his coat didn’t do much to stop bullets, but it did a hell of a lot against stares. The way Malone looked at the exposed inner-workings of his chest made him pass up fighting and go straight to flight. One of the men to his back shifted and made his proximity sensors squeal. He wouldn’t flinch, damn it. He was too damn old for this. “You’re a busy man, too busy to spend time yappin’ with an old synth. Let’s cut to the chase.”

The mob boss smiled out right now, and Nick hoped it was from the veiled compliment. Skinny Malone was easy to set off - didn’t have the cool head of Eddie Winters, nor the patience of DiFonzo. If he’d been anywhere else, he’d have used it to his advantage. Here? Well, there wasn’t anything stopping him from taking out his frustrations on the already battered body before him. Nick held his tongue and forced back all the jabs that threatened to break loose. 

“You shoulda’ left good enough alone, Nicky,” Malone continued. “This ain’t the old neighborhood. I’ve got power now, a whole damn vault under my thumb,” he jerked his chin up, standing to gesture at the concrete room, before stepping just a little too far into Nick’s space. His leg settled between the synth’s knees and he leered - skull just a little too far away to headbutt, an idle subroutine provided. Nick focused on keeping perfectly still, maintaining eye contact, and not letting even one little flinch get through. “I don’t need some washed-up dick makin’ things hard, and I don’t need anyone else gettin’ in my way. The most sensible thing’d be to put a bullet between those bright little eyes.” A sharp edge of discomfort edged beneath his metal sternum and Malone smiled. “But, you an’ I - we’ve been through some real shit, ‘ey Nicky? Be one hell of a shame for the spook of the Commonwealth to die here. A real shame.” Finally, he leaned back, but Nick didn’t let himself relax just yet.

Skinny Malone paced to the far wall, a beat passing before he turned back to face the synth. “How ‘bout this, Nicky-boy. You live, you stay safe - don’t need to worry your little metal head about us. Think of it as a… _partnership._ Yeah. You stay down here, nice and outta my way, and I letcha live. Maybe I’ll even letcha have a bit of the cabbage, ey?” He stalked closer once again. “Sounds real cushy, right Nicky? You’d be a fool to let it pass you by.”  
Nick’s first instinct was a loud and resounding _no._ He wanted to be back in Diamond City, back with Ellie and Piper and shit, he’d even take Myrna right about now. At least Myrna was predictable. This? He’d never liked surprises, especially when the chopper squad was involved. But, Skinny Malone wasn’t going to kill him yet, and Nick wanted to keep it that way. “What’s the catch?” He ground out, the sensors in his jaw giving a low-priority warning. 

Malone smiled a greasy expression that sent a nervous jolt of energy up his spine. “I got a good thing goin’ here, Nicky. I need to know who else knows I’m here. Don’t want any uninvited guests.”

“No one else. I work alone,” Nick said, maybe a bit too quickly, maybe with a bit too much static. Teeth joined Skinny Malone’s grin, even as he tutted. 

“You sure? What happened to that Bull-bird fella?”

“Bullfinch walked.” Nick’s voice stayed steady, thank God. Malone shrugged.

“His loss. How about that ditzy broad of yours?” Nick couldn’t help it this time, feeling himself bristle but unable to stop himself. His internals felt a little too warm, working a little too hard from the anger that took him in waves, but he wasn’t willing to breathe harder to cool himself down. An unpleasant part of himself realized that he’d be real happy to have Skinny Malone on the floor right now, preferably not moving. That’s what the low-life mug in front of him deserved, talking about Ellie like that. 

It wasn’t the time. He had to play his cards right, keep ‘em close to his chest. Skinny Malone wasn’t the brightest bulb in the bunch. If he could just play along, keep his temper in check, he’d be home-free soon enough. Couldn’t tip his mitt too soon, or he and Ellie’d be dead.

“Her too. Went right along with him.” He bit out without much hesitation. 

Malone had the gall to look sympathetic. “Partner got dizzy with your secretary and walked, huh? Ain’t that a cryin’ shame. A real, bonafide tragedy. Seems like somethin’ out of those ol’ books. A scorned detective, a roundheel partner taking the run-out, an’ a chirpy skirt caught in the middle…”

It happened damn fast, but not fast enough for his processors. The twitch in Skinny Malone’s hands, the sudden tilt of his hips, the way his expression dropped to reveal something sinister. The metal restraints dug hard into his flesh wrist as his self-preservation routines forced it up even as he willed it to be still. Something ripped, and then the butt of Skinny Malone’s submachine gun slammed into the side of his face.

Sometimes, he was happy that he was a synth. The blow hurt like a sonofabitch, but the hard rubber skin of his face had gone through worse. Titanium creaked where bone would break, but he still briefly worried about the strain the strut underneath the bridge of his nose went under. It shifted - an odd, disturbing feeling - but it wasn’t enough of a change that a human would notice. He did, and it sent a sharp stab of panic through his neural network. He wasn’t a narcissist - not by a long shot - but he _was_ painfully aware that the remaining human-like parts of him were the only reason why most people didn’t shoot him on sight. When you meet a person you look them in the face, see their eyes, watch their mouth, and then make your judgments whether you consciously want to or not. If all a person saw was metal, what the hell would they think? Nothing good. Never anything good.

(The gaps in his chest were enough, damn it. He knew he wasn’t human, was painfully aware of that fact, but couldn’t he at least maintain _some resemblance_ to the man he once was?

_...To the man he had the memories of,_ he was quick to correct. _Don’t delude yourself, it won’t help anyone - much less you._ )

He was lucky. Damn lucky. Damage diagnostics sprung up without prompt, revealing that whatever skin left on his face remained. His face was fine - it was his neck that suffered. So damn focused on staying perfectly still, he couldn’t force those servos to release until it was far too late. One of them squealed, sending sharp stabs of pain down his spinal strut and up the back of his skull. It was impossible to tell if those sparks were merely an optical artifact or a bit more of his body giving up. It might have been both.

When the gun fell away and Skinny Malone dropped within eyesight to leer, the world was at a slight angle. Again, not something that a human would see or recognize, but his processor was far too eager to scream the _wrongness_ of it all. _Maintenance required - yeah, no shit,_ he cleared the alerts from his HUD and focused on glaring at the mobster in front of him.

"I really hope you ain't lying to me, Nicky,” the pudgy man drawled. Lazily, he slung the gun back over his shoulder and leaned back on his haunches, hands stuffed into the pockets of his suit.

It took a long moment to speak. When Nick did, his voice was tinged with an electronic buzz. “Now why the hell would I do that, Skinny?” Cool and collected, voice as even as he could force it. Skinny Malone’s smile had all too many teeth in it as he edged closer.

“You know why, _Detective Valentine._ I’m a respectable man, Nicky. I ain’t gonna let the sunshine in after such a long, professional relationship, but I _am_ gonna protect what’s mine.” Even closer now, standing nearly between his knees. The urge to curl up or push outwards nearly overtook him, but he couldn’t move even if he let himself indulge. The submachine gun slung from its perch yet again, and Skinny Malone placed the barrel under his chin. Nick allowed his head to be tilted upwards, the metal cool against his false skin. The broken servo protested, audibly grinding, but Nick didn’t give Malone the satisfaction of a reaction. He grit his denta and met the man’s eyes with a glare. The mobster shook his head. “Whatever, _whoever_ you’re hiding, Nick, I sure do hope it’s worth it. You ain’t human, but you hurt and you bleed just like any other chump. An’ trust me - I ain’t afraid to make you _hurt._ Go ahead and think about it, Nicky. Holler when you change your mind.”

With that, his head was allowed to drop, and Skinny Malone moved to the side. The goons at his back turned and followed their boss as he left, letting the metal door slam shut. A lock clunked into place, and then the room was quiet yet again, leaving Nick to his frantic thoughts.


	2. My Way or the Highway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for nonconsensual touching, just so y'know.

It’d been one, long, _greuling_ week.

He’d stayed silent, didn’t let out a peep. Skinny Malone wanted him to crack - but he was going to have to try a whole hell of a lot harder than this. Nick didn’t need to sleep, didn’t need to eat. Had no urge for a sip of water and didn’t have to go to the restroom. He’d live through this right up until the fusion core in his abdomen ran out of juice. Sure, he could shut down or run a few diagnostics to pass the time - if he angled his head just right, they wouldn’t be able to see his eyes go dark. He didn’t trust it. All that would do is give them a golden opportunity served on a silver platter. 

The metal bands around his arms and legs seemed to grow smaller with each day, but his processor determined that was not the case. Any increase of pressure was in his head. He knew it was the curse of having a human mind. Machines didn’t get bored. Machines didn’t crave a cigarette. Machines don't long for their own chair at their own desk. Machines didn’t miss their secretary and worry themselves sick over wondering if she was alright. Machines didn’t miss talking, didn’t miss being around people, didn’t miss having eyes to look into and words to parse.

Machines… machines don’t get lonely.

The old, pre-war Nick Valentine had been a tried and true extrovert. The man had flourished with people - 's why he devoted his life to protect them, after all. Sure, he was an incorrigible grump before he had his coffee, and he got a little too passionate at times, but people were where the old Nick thrived. This Nick Valentine, the synth with Nick’s memories, didn't have a choice. He felt the urges - felt crowds that beckoned to him, felt the longing of a good chat - but with this mug? People usually wanted him gone as soon as possible. It used to hurt. Now, he was used to it.

What contact he did get, he held on to. Piper, Ellie. Hancock whenever he passed through Goodneighbor. Doctor Amari and Irma. He wouldn’t delude himself into thinking that they’d worry. In actuality, he hoped they didn’t. This was his fault, his hubris. 

It didn’t make going cold-turkey sting any less. God, he needed a smoke. 

It had been seven days, five hours, 35 minutes, 58 seconds since Skinny Malone and his goons had left him alone when the door finally opened. Thank Christ. He’d take Malone over looking at the same damn wall any longer. Some small part of him felt disgusted at how eager he was to speak, the words rolling out of his mouth before his processor could catch up

“Lose your patience, ‘ey Malone? Answer’s still the same. I-” Something hard hit him in the back of the skull, wrenching his neck and nearly making him hiss. A much slimmer man filled his vision when he looked back up, the movement causing the damaged servo to grind. It was painfully obvious that the man was one of Skinny’s - what with the dress vest and _almost_ white shirt. The Triggermen had a solid aesthetic going on, not like it didn’t make him want to laugh every time he saw them. They weren’t the mobsters Real Nick had dealt with, not even close. Somehow, that didn’t make the sliver of fear lodged in his chest dissolve.

“Shut the fuck up, robot,” the Triggerman sneered eloquently. A submachine gun peaked from over his shoulder and a knife sat in his palm. Once again, two other people settled by the door - Malone nowhere in sight. Nick let the words roll off his back, much more focused on the weapons. 

“Now, fella, I dunno exactly how Malone’ll handle his guest gettin’ talked to like that,” Nick drawled. Shoulders relaxed, joints loose - he’d learned his lesson about tensing up the last time. This time, he was a little more prepared. He focused a couple of subroutines on the men behind him, setting his proximity sensors to high priority. Every other bit of him watched the man in front of him, analyzing the smug smile and predatory glint in his eyes. Anticipating whatever move he’d make. It was sheer force of will that prevented him from flinching as the mobster crouched down.

“Who the fuck do you think sent me in here?” Oh, hell. He knew not to trust Malone’s promises. Promising him his life just because of the ‘good old days,’ what a load of horseshit. Some of his disappointment (maybe even a little fear, shit) must’ve leaked into his expression, causing the man to smile even wider.

“Don’t you worry, _detective_. Boss’ still got a soft spot for ya’, not that I fuckin’ understand it. Gettin’ you outta’ the way would set us down easy street. But, I suppose I don’ really need to kill ya for that, now do i?” Thank God Nick didn’t need to breathe. As it was, his coolant pump chugged a little too fast in his chest, the trunk of his body feeling a little too warm. His processors spun themselves into a tizzy in his skull despite his frantic attempts to wrangle them.

_> Threat to functionality detected. Immediate disengagement is required.  
>Onboard processor reaching 38°C. Immediately cease strenuous activity.  
>Coolant Pump Error detected. Report to 3co4oh31v immediately._

One after another, the alerts appeared on his HUD faster than he could clear them away. With the reality of the situation fully sinking in, it was hard to keep up. The last thing he needed to do was panic, he knew it would only spur on the man in front of him even more. As it was, Nick somehow managed to keep his expression impassive for the most part. He doubted that the mobster would recognize the slight brightening of his eyes, not that Nick could have prevented that truly involuntary response. 

The man chuckled and sauntered forward, invading Nick’s personal space without a hint of hesitation. This close he could probably feel the heat coming off of Nick’s chassis in waves. For the first time since waking up in this shitty room, he was thankful that his trench coat was removed before he was restrained. His cooling fans were having trouble as it was - adding one more obstacle between them and the cool air would have made things even more uncomfortable than they already were.

That discomfort only heightened as the man grabbed Nick’s chin and yanked it upwards, revealing the expanse of his tattered neck. A whole new slew of alerts bombarded him, telling him _exactly_ how many vital components were revealed by the simple motion. His vocalizer unit, the main coolant line to and from his processors, so many servos and synthetic tendons that controlled the minute movement of his head - the urge to yank away was too much, and he almost succeeded.

The cool sensation of a knife lodged between a coolant line and his faux-esophagus. Automatically, he stilled all movement. One nick to that coolant line and -

Fuck. The demented asshole on the other end of the knife was chuckling again. “Got nothing to say for yourself, _detective?_ ” He spat the word like it was a rotten piece of mutfruit. “Knife got your tongue, or whatever-the-fuck you have. Y’know, I’ve never gotten a good look at any of you fucks. Too busy spilling blue blood on the floor. But now-”

“Seems like you’re doing enough talking for the both of us.” Interrupting the fella that’s got a knife not only to, but _in_ his throat certainly wasn't one of Nick Valentine’s better plans, but he didn’t immediately regret it. He couldn’t see the other man’s face, but he could feel the indignant anger in the air. He felt more than saw his fist tighten around the handle, steel knocking against the sensitive sensors.

Then, there was pain.

In one fluid movement, the man wrenched his head back even more - putting excess strain on the already damaged servo nestled next to his spine. Neck bared and processor whirling, he almost didn’t feel the knife hook around one of the minor sensory cables and _yank._ A garbled whine - definitely not a whimper, not if he wanted to save any of his dignity - tore its way from his vocalizer. It didn’t hurt, at least not in the way injuries in the real-Nick’s memories hurt, but the feeling of _disconnect,_ the disconnective perception of each attached sensor going dark as they were severed from his processor - it certainly didn’t feel good. 

“You better watch that tongue of yours, Valentine, before i cut the fucker out,” the man sneered before a contemplative expression came over his face. Decidedly not enjoying that turn of events, Nick steeled himself. “Actually, do you even have a tongue?” A short, contemplative noise came from the other man’s throat before the knife returned. “Open up, tincan.”

 _What?!_ Nick was no stranger to curiosity - it was one of the better reactions he got from the general public - but this? “Absolutely not,” he spoke between clenched teeth, the sounds from his vocalizer muffled. The knife tightened.

“Aw, embarrassed? Well, you don’t really have a say in what i do to ya’, now do you? Though… there is a way you can persuade me to leave ya alone, Nicky. Can I call you Nicky? Oh, who am I kidding. Of course i can!” The knife shook with his laughter. “How about this - you tell me who knows you’re here, and i’ll walk right out of that door. Otherwise, I’ll just have to deal with my curiosity some other way.”

He couldn’t. One mention of Ellie’s name would send these bindle stiff’s right to their front door. Diamond City's security was good but not nearly good enough for his best friend’s life. He could stand some poking and prodding or whatever this bastard’s got planned for him. It wasn’t just his life - it never was, and he wished that he’d realized it before waltzing into Park Street station like a sap.

Now, he just regretted that he wouldn’t be able to apologize for his oversight. Ellie deserved that much.

“Get. Fucked.” He ground out. Immediately, the man’s hand tensed on his jaw and forced his head back even more. If it wasn’t for the angle - Nick would say that it was deliberately chosen to put pressure on the broken servo if he wasn’t so certain that they didn’t know he was injured - he would have forced his way out of the hold and slammed his much sturdier forehead into the other man’s nose. As it was, something squealed and sparked and forced him to gasp through clenched teeth - not that it would do anything for him.

The man's fingers found the hinge of his jaw, curling up from where his palm was jammed into the junction between Nick's neck and chin. Though he couldn’t get any purchase to throw the man off, Nick was quite determined to keep his teeth ground together - much to the man’s irritation. He snarled out something highly improper before pressing closer with the knife. The added pressure against his coolant line this time made full-blown panic stir in his chest cavity. He strained against the bindings, hands reaching for the man’s torso but falling just a little short. An alert momentarily drew him to the fact that his knee would pop out of alignment if he didn’t stop pushing.

A thumb forced it’s way past his lips and all thoughts of stopping his resistance went the way of the dodo bird. A flash of premature celebration flickered across the man’s face and Nick feverishly wanted to open his jaw just long enough to sever the intruding appendage. In fact, he would have done just that if his proximity sensors hadn’t sprung to life.

That manic sneer on the man’s face disappeared as someone appeared in the doorway. His hands dropped to his sides and he stepped back, looking too much like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. The association would have made Nick nauseous if he could feel so.

“Dino, boss wants ya’. Don’t keep him waiting.” Just like that, the new man was gone. Some of that frenzied irritation on the man - Dino’s - face came back just for a moment at the mention of Skinny Malone. There it was, a chink in his armor. Nick grabbed onto that factoid with both hands and refused to let go, even as Dino looked down at him with unbridled disgust. 

“Guess we’ll just have to wait. Don’ you worry, Nicky, I’ll make a cap-purse outta’ that tongue if it’s the last thing i do.” The vulgarity of the statement kept him from readying a resonance before Dino sidestepped his restrained body and carried on to the door. Once again, the lock clicked shut, and Nick was left alone, coming down from what might have been an adrenaline rush - if he could even produce adrenaline, that is. He couldn’t, yet his hands still shook long after he balled them up and focused on making them steady.

If it wasn’t clear before, it was very obvious that his chances of getting out of this alive were alarmingly low. His processor immediately attempted to provide an exact figure, but Nick irritably slapped the numbers away. The odds were against him - nothing in his corner, injured in a way he wasn’t sure he could repair even in the best of circumstances, a maniac with an odd fixation on his mouth - damn, he really was in trouble.

One thing was certain - he couldn't wait any longer, but he couldn't brute-force his way out either. What the Triggermen lacked in experience, they gained in numbers and loyalty - or, at least, that's what Nick had thought. Even if he got out, it'd be hard to get out of the vault alive. He'd need an ace up his sleeve. The look on Dino's face when Skinny Malone was mentioned flashed in his processors. Skinny Malone chose to send him in here over everyone else under his command, so he could safely assume Dino wasn't one of the rank-and-file. There was a crack here, something he could wiggle his fingers into and pull apart. A few well-placed jabs, a couple offhand comments, and that crack just might give way to his freedom. 

Maybe he'd show them what his silver tongue could do after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback is incredibly appreciated! Happy first day of October!


End file.
